Pandemic, or Careful With What You Wish For
by Captain Narcolepsy
Summary: Four of the Avengers trapped in the Tower on hot summer day with unknown diseases invading the place, what can possibly go wrong? M to be safe.
1. Chapter 1

**Pandemic, or Careful With What You Wish For**

_**(For the whole fic:)**_

_**Author:**_ Captain Narcolepsy

_**Disclaimer:**_ And again, if I owned The Avengers, you would've noticed, I swear.

_**Warnings:**_ language, sufferings, you know, the usual stuff. Plus I am afraid there will be OOC-ness, though I will do my best to make the guys stay in-character.

_**AN: **_Sooo, being the med student I am, I decided to make the guys face not some outer, but _inner _danger, and watch how they will cope with it. I think it's going to be curious. Also, I've decided to concentrate all the clever stuff around Bruce, because, _duh,_ he is the doctor there, so the others won't bug you with random medical terms that make close to none sense. 8)

_**Summary:**_ Four of the Avengers trapped in the Tower on hot summer day with unknown diseases invading the place, what can possibly go wrong?

* * *

_Tell me exactly, what am I supposed to do?_

_Now that I have allowed you to beat me._

_Do you think that we could play another game?_

_Maybe I could win this time?_

-o- -o- -o-

"A peaceful sunny summer day. Just perfect for a disaster to strike. _Come on,_ something is _bound _to happen, or I'm going to die of boredom right here and now," Tony lazily draws, rising up from the sofa he was occupying and stretching his arms and spine. A short satisfied huff leaves his lips as his joints crackle slightly. _Muuuch better._

_Okay,_ he mentally shakes a fist at the Universe. _If nothing is going to happen today to amuse Tony Stark, he will do it himself, be sure._ But first, he needs (not exactly _needs_; but living in the 'Stark Tower Dorm' teaches that most fun comes from company) someone to join his ambitious plans and devise some monstrous prank together. That is going to be _awesome_.

But first, coffee. This summer heat makes him all groggy.

As the genius fights with the almost-broken-yet-again coffee-machine absent-mindedly (he is _so_ going to tell Thor coffee-machine is _not_ designed to make pancakes. or cookies. or roasted bacon), Tony thinks about his accomplices-to-be. In fact, it feels almost wrong to team up with someone and plan ridiculousness when there are only four of them in the Tower (with Thor having gone to Asgard to sort out some another game of thrones (that's what he told the rest of the team, but _of course_ everybody knows he simply escaped Tony's righteous anger about the coffee-machine), and Natasha ('so not surprised. Totally not surprised') having miraculously disappeared to a personal mission), but he is just so damn bored he is going to explode, implode and turn into a Tony-Stark-mini-Black-Hole, all rights reserved, if he doesn't team up with someone.

Tony finally gets the machine working and goes through his mental list of Earth's mightiest heroes currently inhabiting his territory. He strikes out Capt's name immediately: the old-fashioned man is no fun when it comes to jokes.

'Maybe Hawkeye then?' Stark lazily thinks, pulling his mug from the machine and stepping to one of the windows to gaze out at the noon city. Oh wait, no, no Hawkeye. Tony is still somewhat pissed at the guy for that accident three days ago, when the damn archer came running into one of Stark's labs, flailing his arms and laughing his ass off about some stupid thing Tony can't even remember now. Not that he cares about that thing, for Clint's childish behavior allowed Barton to forget all precautions and _flip over_ one of Tony's most precious tripods (okay, the tripod itself wasn't really _that_ precious, but the contents of tubes which it held actually _were_), hopelessly spilling the chemicals on the floor. And Stark has been working on those for past week. So yeah, he is still pissed enough not to involve Barton in his _amazing _plans on brightening the mood in here. And it's no one's but Barton's fault, uh-huh.

Which leaves Bruce. And that is kind of cool, because a) this puts the Hulk on Tony's side (a valuable point, one must say; not having an angry Hulk chase you after your successful prank? Priceless) and b) being the science bros, they will be able to devise a plan of pure awesomeness. Tony almost jumps in joy, as caffeine starts streaming through his veins, throws the now empty mug in the dishwasher and strides out of the room, being sure that he will find Bruce somewhere in his labs, on Banner's floor.

-o- -o- -o-

'Aaaaaiim. Release… Perfect,' a smug grin appears on Clint's face as he opens his eyes and stares at the shooting mark right at the opposite wall from where the archer is standing. Bull's eye, of course. Not that he would ever think he would miss such an easy target, but shooting with your eyes closed… A tiniest bit of a challenge here. Again, _not that_ he would miss, anyway.

Clint is bored. He was even more bored an hour ago, but then he decided to try out all this 'blind method' stuff, so now he's a bit less bored, but still. 'Wish something would happen,' he thinks, pulling another arrow from his quiver and looking down at it. A small mark or 'Stark Industries' catches his eye, and the man's thought drifts to Tony.

'Stark is clearly overreacting,' he allows his calmness to slip for a moment, and the arrow embeds itself two inches below the first one. The archer winces as if from physical pain and reaches back for the next arrow. 'He really is. I mean, okay, I knocked that damn thing over. Was that really such a big deal? Chasing me out of the lab was completely uncalled for. Heck, I even apologized! I guess. Or did I?' Clint lets another arrow fly and doesn't even look at it when he opens his eyes, turning away from the shooting mark and starting to polish the bow out of a habit. When he is finished, Clint slings the bow over his shoulder and decides to go get a glass of ice tea in one of the rooms next to the range.

-o- -o- -o-

Bruce slowly raises his head from where it was resting on his crossed arms. The scientist hasn't even realized he had fallen asleep until now. The heat is really heavy. Pressing down at his brain, making him sleepy. Totally not good. 'See, even thoughts longer than ten words elude me,' Banner discontentedly thinks before getting up and striding out of his lab. "I need something to drink," he says aloud, his steps echoing down the empty corridor.

-o- -o- -o-

"JARVIS, turn it off, please," Steve asks as he sits up on his bed, flipping through pages of the book he is currently reading.

"Of course, sir," the voice promptly answers, tuning out Beatles' 'Yesterday' at once.

"Thank you," the man doesn't forget to express his gratitude, though his brow is furrowed as he searches through the pages of Vonnegut's 'Cat's Cradle'. He's been catching up with history since they settled down at Stark's (at sixties now), and that also involves music and literature.

"_May I help you, sir?"_ JARVIS politely questions.

"Um, er, don't mind me, JARVIS, I simply lost the page where Papa appears, kind of missed that point, errm," Steve looks down another page before flipping it over.

"_Where John and the others arrive on the island?"_ the voice inquires.

"Exactly. Yes. Almost found it, just a moment more," the soldier murmurs before JARVIS points out the exact page.

"Oh," Steve can do nothing but blink. "…Right. Thank you, JARVIS."

"_You are most welcome, sir. Turn on the music again?"_

"Yes, please."

-o- -o- -o-

Tony enters Bruce's lab with a mischievous grin on his face but stops dead in his tracks, realizing the other one is not there. "Banner, you are no fun at all, disappearing from places I expect to find you at," the genius murmurs unappreciatively before sitting down on one of the scientist's chairs. "Now where can you be…" he continues murmuring before a thought pops up in his mind.

"JARVIS! Locate Banner," he commands with a wave of his hand.

"_Just a moment, siiioo-"_ the butler's voice distorts, transforming beyond recognition, and then goes completely silent.

"Err… JARVIS? If that's a way of telling me Bruce is at restroom or whatever, you could use more common terms, you know."

The only response is a weird cracking sound, and then it goes silent again.

Stark raises an eyebrow.

"_Hellooo, Avengers!"_ a new voice sounds in the Tower's dynamics, and Tony stops spinning in the chair, highly disturbed.

-o- -o- -o-

"_What a lovely boring day today, isn't it?"_ Steve _does not_ drop his book, wondering where the 'Yellow Submarine' went. The male voice is unfamiliar, and it sounds as if it is there instead of JARVIS'. Maybe the others hear it, too? Steve props himself up on his elbow, listening intently.

"_That's it, a disgustingly boring day! This is why I decided to liven it up a bit. Or right the opposite? Word pun intended. You might be confused right now, dear friends, but it is okay, you will get the drill soon, I promise."_

-o- -o- -o-

The voice drives Clint mad._ What the hell is he talking about? Who is that? And what does he want?_ The archer grips his glass of tea so tightly his fingers go numb. This is wrong on so many levels.

"_Okay, now to the business stuff. You know, I am quite bored myself, too. This is why I want to play a game. Wait, gimme a second, this is someone's line already, isn't it? Ah, like I care. Anyway._

"_Before you do or say anything, I want to warn you that I have overwritten JARVIS' program, so now you can't use phones, automatic window openers, fancy __**costumes **__or whatever else: everything like that is under my control. And it is no fun when you just go outside and end the game. Or call for help. Wait, heroes don't call for help… Again, whatever."_

-o- -o- -o-

Bruce leans back against a wall. He didn't like the idea at its very beginning, and he doubts he still has a chance to like it.

"_Ah, I got sidetracked again. But! We got to the interesting stuff. Soon all four of you will experience… Some unpleasant feeling. I'm not going to tell you what it will be like, but here is a hint: it __**might**__ or __**might not**__ be contagious."_

Banner feels cold sweat starting to run down his back. He is _so not_ liking it.

-o- -o- -o-

Tony makes an effort to close his mouth. _This is not happening. Are you kidding me?_

"_Of course, each of you will get his own type of disease. Ow! I didn't mean it to slip so soon, how sad," _the voice chirps on.

-o- -o- -o-

"_But oh well, since you all know already that you will be infected, here's another thing: it __**might**__ or __**might not**__ be deadly._

"_Aaand one more thing is that I will use a bit modified strains of causative agents. Kind of more thrilling when the disease progresses faster than a normal form should, huh? Or has some extra symptoms. Also, will make it more difficult for you to define the illness."_

The archer growls quietly. _What a stupid game. _

-o- -o- -o-

Steve stands near the large window, staring at the city with unseeing eyes. The voice echoes in his head.

"_But, you know what, I like playing fair. So there's a fair chance to all of you to finish the game alive. If the infection is not deadly, that is,"_ the man laughs.

"_By 'playing fair' I mean, you can still use whatever you can find on these floors. See how generous I am! If you heal, you win. If you die… well, I win, obviously."_

-o- -o- -o-

Bruce slides down the wall slowly, taking off his glasses and pinching his nosebridge. He still can't believe this is happening.

"_All rules clear? Perfect! And the game starts… Now!"_

* * *

…**And that was the beginning! Thrilled? I bet not. 8D Any guesses on the illnesses? **

**The next chapter is half-written already, and I suppose I'll post it in a few days. If you are interested, that is (I'm not whoring for reviews, I just can't see the reason to post a multi-chapter if no one cares. This is the only reason for me to talk about reviews, honestly). **

**Cheers, everyone!**

**- Cpt.**


	2. Chapter 2

_**AN:**_** Alright, here comes the second chapter! It's shorter, but contains a tiny bit more action. Thank you guys for your reviews, favs and alerts, I literally had my inbox bombed with FF's messages, and this is really cool. Hope not to disappoint you further!**

* * *

_Wake up! Are you alive?  
Will you listen to me?  
I'm gonna talk about some freaky shit now  
Someone is gonna die  
When you listen to me  
Let the living die, let the living die_

-o- -o- -o-

"_All rules clear? Perfect! And the game starts… Now!"_

Steve jumps off his bed and strides to another room, where his costume is, and takes his shield. The soldier highly doubts it will help him against whatever disease he might face, but at least it makes him more confident.

The man returns to his room, closing the door behind himself, and starts inspecting the territory for anything unusual. He crouches down to look under his bed, opens his wardrobe, checks through his library. Nothing seems out of place though, so maybe his room is still a safe territory, but what about the others?

Steve takes his phone (a much more simple version of what the others have; the man doesn't like all these new _uselessly-complicated_ things) and dials Banner's number.

'_Sorry, but the action is prohibited,'_ JARVIS' voice answers, and Steve can swear he hears apologetic notes. Poor AI can neither fully control itself anymore, nor make the house function properly. The man goes up to the windows and tries opening them. Locked.

So they indeed cannot contact anyone from the outside. But it is for the best, though; it means they will bring no harm to innocent civilians by spreading the viruses. Steve places his shield on the bed and rubs his temples. This is going to be a difficult time up here.

-o- -o- -o-

Bruce gets up finally and runs hands through his hair. This cannot be happening. This is just so _extremely weird _that it simply cannot be happening. Ridiculous. Who would even _think_ of playing such a game?

Apart from the Villain-Of-The-Week, that is.

Bruce feels the Other Guy stir inside, but he cannot allow him to surface. The building is Hulk-proof, anyway, and hulking out will only result in the team losing their doctor, and he is most needed now. Yes, Stark is smart, and Clint and Steve have some basic knowledge of dealing with illnesses due to their professions, but Bruce highly doubts they will manage to identify the diseases without him successfully _and_ _in time_. So yeah, no Hulk this time, he will be completely useless at this point.

A sharp stinging feeling appears at the back of the scientist's neck, and Bruce slaps it mechanically, wrinkling his nose at the disgusting feeling. He looks at his hand and notices a smashed almost beyond recognition tiny body of an insect.

The man puts on his glasses and pulls his hand up to examine the creature, furrowing his brow. It definitely used to be a mosquito, but now it's hard to tell its species. Bruce growls in frustration. Well, at least some specificity on what he's about to face. Definitely something that is carried by mosquitoes. But what? There are a damn lot of illnesses transferred by them, the list is nearly endless. So what was in that particular one? Malaria? tularemia? encephalitis? anthrax? or lymphatic filariasis (the man shudders at the thought of developing elephantiasis from that)? Only time will tell, and Bruce's thoughts drift to the rest of the team. What if the illness catches up with him sooner than he manages to figure out what is wrong with the others?

More importantly,_ how _is he going to figure it out? They have no communication, and direct contact can be extremely dangerous.

Bruce sighs and closes his eyes in deep thought. Alright, one problem at a time. What he needs now is to get to his labs. He will have all necessary information there, and he might be able to design the cure, if the possibility shows itself.

The man gets out of the room and strides down the corridor as swiftly as possible, thinking of the shortest way to get to the labs. Several minutes later the scientist is almost there, when he enters another room and collides with someone.

-o- -o- -o-

Clint exhales slowly and looks down at the glass still clenched tightly in his left hand. He doesn't really want to drink this tea, all of a sudden, so he places the glass on a nearby table and glances around, highly attentive to anything out of order.

'_This is so fucked up, I don't even-'_ he doesn't get the chance to finish his thought as he notices some movement in the corner of the eye on his right. In less than two seconds the archer takes his bow, pulls an arrow from his quiver and lets it fly, hearing someone squeak in the shadow behind a table. The man takes a fighting stance immediately and slowly circles the table with bow drawn. What he sees makes him wince in displeasure, for there lies a huge_ (literally, huge! Gigantic!)_ black rat pierced with his arrow. Clint watches with disgust the animal's death throes, and finally its squeaks die out in thick air, and the man takes a careful step closer to the rat.

"Well, if that was going to bite me, I win this round," he whispers in the air satisfiedly.

-o- -o- -o-

Tony jumps back up only a second after the collision, scrambling blindly away from the other one as his brain screams 'infection! infection!' out of self-preservation instinct. The man wasn't feeling safe in Bruce's lab full of god-knows-what (that is why he decided to leave it, in fact), but now that place seems much more safe to him as he runs back into it and slams the door behind. He peeks outside through a small glass window in the door and sees a very disheveled and looking equally nervous Bruce get up and brush dust off his clothing.

"Bruce?" the man cocks his head to a side and raises an eyebrow, eyeing the scientist.

"Tony?" the doctor looks just as surprised and takes a step towards the door. "What are you doing in my lab?"

"Ah, you know, just trying not to catch a cold. Hiding in not chilled places. It's quite warm in here, you know that?" Tony sarcastically replies.

"This is _precisely_ the reason I left it. The air-conditioning system works like shit in this particular lab," comes the doctor's response, muffled by the layer of glass.

"Oh really? Gimme a sec," Tony decides to check if the AI is still at his service and calls out, "JARVIS, fix the prob."

"_Just a moment, sir,"_ comes the butler's reply, and Tony shoots Bruce a smug look, but the sudden concern in the other's eyes makes all smugness disappear.

"_Now_ what is wrong, pray tell me," Stark rolls his eyes before realizing what Bruce's concern is about. "Oh _fuck._"

'Exactly,' Banner's skeptical nod tells him.

"Fuck. Oh shit. Oh fuck," Stark can't stop swearing as he turns around and away from the window, shouting out to the AI.

"JARVIS! Turn the AC _off, now_. Everywhere! And close all the doors!"

"_Yes, sir,"_ the butler says and the Tower goes silent as the air-conditioning system is turned off.

Tony frowns deeply. Damn it, what they totally don't need now is all those infection agents surging freely through the Tower via the AC. Or infected zombie mutant animals and/or insects running around, equally freely.

"Tony, we need to contact the others, or we'll end up running into each other eventually," Bruce's voice makes him snap out of his thoughts.

"Well _I'm_ not going to run into anyone anymore, I'm quite content with sitting in your lab, thank you very much," Stark answers, but his brain is already working at the possible way to communicate. _Ah-ha, got it!_

"JARVIS, enable the dynamics?" Tony half-questions, not sure if that part of the program is blocked by the mysterious man.

"_Yes, sir,"_ comes the reply and then there is silence.

Tony waits for a few seconds before speaking up.

"Anyone hears me?" he asks.

A pause, a crackling sound. Tony turns his head to glance at Bruce, who lifts up a thumb.

"_I do,"_ the man says, and Stark hears him much more clearly, now that his voice is coming from the dynamics, and not from behind a layer of glass.

"Anyone else?" he prompts.

"_Me too, motherfuckers_," Hawkeye's voice suddenly appears. _"Dunno about you, but I've already killed off that thing that was going to carry my infection, beat that."_

Tony watches Bruce wince for a reason he doesn't know. He thinks of Clint, analyzing his words. The not-so-much-needed swearing is purely indicating the man is nervous, regardless of whether he is indeed safe now or not.

"_I hear you, too,"_ Steve's firm voice sounds. _"What is going on, guys?"_

"I wish I knew," Tony mutters.

* * *

**Well, at least now they can communicate, which is awesome. And Clint is safe, which is awesome, too. …He is safe, right?**

**We will find out. And for now, cheers!**

**- Captaaain**


	3. Chapter 3

_**AN:**_** Hi! I'm sorry, this took longer than I was expecting, but well, I currently have some troubles in real life (my gf dumped me… yeah.), so it's kind of difficult to find the motivation/inspiration, but hey, I'm not the one to give up (*only partly bravado there*)!**

**Enough with me, now a few words about the chapter: and again, I'm sorry, for it's mostly random talking again, but it's really necessary to set all conditions. I hope you don't become **_**too bored**_**, I really do.**

* * *

_Are you breathing, no?_

_Do the wicked see you?_

_You're still breathing,_

_You're making me known_

_Are you breathing, no?_

_Do the wicked see you?_

_You're still breathing_

-o- -o- -o-

"What is going on, guys?"

"_I wish I knew," _Tony mutters through the dynamics.

Steve sighs. This is so not good, unimaginably. Suddenly, he remembers something he wanted to say.

"By the way, guys, the AC went off. Did one of us do that? It's really uncomfortable here at this level of temperature."

"_Ah __**come on**__, military head, even I know this is damn dangerous,"_ Clint's voice cuts in. _"Just think about all those tiny microbes, viruses and other little jerks circulating through the building. Not cool, dude."_

"_If putting this in common terms, 'not cool' is a precise definition, thank you, Clint,"_ Bruce adds.

"_You're welcome, doc."_

"_It's so sweet that you boys are defending my decision so valiantly, I cannot even begin to express my gratitude."_ Steve rolls his eyes at the words. _Tony._

"…_But yes, my blue-faced friend, the bird and the doc have already said what I was going to. Still wondering?"_

Steve wants to shake his head, but realizes nobody will see that. "No. But won't we just, you know, suffocate in here? Or overheat?"

"_Good question,"_ Banner says. _"Suffocating is not likely to become a problem, but overheating certainly is, so there is a fairly good chance that we will."_

"_This is so __**inspiring**__, Bruce. Totally making some ice in your refrigerators,"_ Tony interrupts.

"_I knew you would like it. And be my guest, go ahead,"_ the doctor tiredly retorts. _"Anyway, this possibility will be a good stimulus for us to get rid of the diseases as soon as possible, so that we will be able to go out without risking of infecting anyone."_

"_Like I needed any more stimuluses, really,"_ Clint bitterly snaps.

"_Like__** any**__ of us needed them, bird-boy,"_ Tony's voice sounds.

"_I thought you weren't talking to me!"_

"_I am not."_

"_But you are."_

"_Am not."_

"_Stop this,"_ Banner cuts in, and the two fall silent obediently. _"So, let's see what we have. We cannot contact the outside and we cannot come close near each other. Or use the same ways in the Tower. By the way, where is everyone? I am currently on tenth floor from the top, __**near my lab**__," _did Steve miss something, or Bruce's tone really changed a bit over that last part of the sentence?

"_And I'm __**in **__your lab!"_ Stark chirps happily.

Ah, _now_ it makes sense.

"_I know that already,__** thank you**__."_

"_I know that you know. Just wanted to irritate you a bit."_

"_Cut it."_

"_Now if you are done chatting, I'm on ninth floor from the top, in the dining room not far from the range."_

"_Which range?" _Bruce asks.

"_The bigger one."_

"_Steve?"_

The man snaps out of his unhappy thoughts. "Uh, I'm on the fifth, in my room."

"_Whatta good boy, Stevie, always in his room."_

"_Cut it, Tony. Next question is: do you have enough food and a first-aid kit within reach? And __**shut up,**__ Stark, I will speak for you. Kit is under the table on the eastern corner, the box is attached to the table from below, and the lab has its own corridor connecting it with the first kitchen and larder, so you won't starve, __**don't worry**__. Clint, Steve?"_

"Give me a minute," Steve replies and goes searching while rustling sounds from the dynamics indicate Clint is probably doing the same thing.

"_No real need to __**search**__, you know each floor is like a separate apartment itself, so there __**are**__ kitchens, larders, Jacuzzis and whatever else your body would desire. First-aid kit is there somewhere, too,"_ Tony rambles, somewhat offended.

"_Got it,"_ Clint's voice sounds; he must have found the kit. Steve discovers his own only a while later, pulling the heavy box down from one of the upper shelves in his bathroom.

"Same thing," he confirms.

"_Toold you so," _Tony draws out self-satisfiedly.

"_Alright. Now to the most major thing. I want all of you to report on your state of health. If anything – __**anything**__ – changes, you tell me. Also, we should not leave the floors we are at, to avoid running into each other. I am currently moving one floor lower, to the eleventh. This way we will be more secure. I hope you understand how important it is. Got it?"_

"_Yes, doc."_

"_Yup, mommy."_

"Yes," Steve says.

"_Good. Now-"_

"_Weeell,"_ a new voice joins the conversation casually, and Steve starts. _"So __**grievously sorry**__ to interrupt you, but I think it will be better to mute the dynamics now. With Dr Banner staying in touch with everyone, it will be much easier for all of you to win this game. Which would be boring. Have a nice day!"_

The dynamics hiss and sputter for several seconds, and then go silent.

"…Guys?" Steve calls out, but nobody answers.

-o- -o- -o-

The communication is cut off when Bruce enters the eleventh floor, and he cannot suppress a groan of frustration. Amazing, now there is no way to know how the others fare. _Or if they are alive._ Banner feels his heart skip a beat at the thought.

Of course, he still can return to his lab and stay in touch with Tony at least, but he doesn't want to take the risks.

Bruce sways dangerously, gripping the doorpost that leads to the living-room, as he feels a wave of nausea rise inside. _It is a symptom,_ his mind hints mechanically. But a symptom of _what_? Anything can cause nausea, from malaria to yellow fever, it's as good symptom as none. _'Or it can simply be the sandwich I ate in the morning.'_ What makes him feel nervous is the knowledge that most of the diseases transferred by mosquitoes start with high temperature up to 40 C, and it's not going to be a pleasant experience. But maybe he will at least have a chance to identify the illness when it starts… Bruce silently wishes he had been able to tell the mosquito's species back then.

-o- -o- -o-

Stark is quite content with staying in Bruce's lab now. It's already dangerous enough in here to not be afraid of any other disease added. Tony flips through one of Banner's numerous folders, humming to himself, when an unusual sound invades his hearing. The man closes the folder, tossing it on the table carelessly, and gets up swiftly, looking around. A second later he spots a bird, a tiny yellow canary, sitting on a lamp on the table at the opposite side of the room.

"Oh hello there, little thing," Stark greets the bird, and it chirps questioningly in response. "How're you doing? Didn't know Banner keeps birds in here. Though, well, we _do_ keep birds in the Tower. One bird. A huge one, comparing to you."

Tony nears the canary and reaches out with his hand. The bird hops on it compliantly, chirping non-stop. Tony continues talking nonsense, and the two look somewhat similar at this point. That is, until the canary _defecates _on the man's arm.

"…_Okay,"_ Tony wrinkles his nose. _"_Okay. _**Gross.**__"_

The genius looks around for something to clean off the surprise, and settles with a box of cleaning wipes. The other scientist definitely uses them to wipe his screens, but they will do for Tony's purpose, too. _Sorry, Brucey, I will buy you another box when I'm out of here. I promise. Or you'll buy one yourself. _The man finishes wiping his skin, and this is when he remembers some other thing he noticed during the search.

"Hmmm. Birdie, _where is your cage?"_ Tony suspiciously asks.

Obviously, the bird doesn't reply. The man shrugs.

"Shit," he sums up matter-of-factly.

* * *

**Dun dun dun! Don't go around cuddling random birds when a villain has his mind set on infecting you, kids.**

**Damn, now I have an image of Tony and the canary chirping nonsense to each other stuck in my head.**

**Next time, I guess, I'll start with Steve and Clint, so we'll see how they fare. **

**And, well, I always ready to boast that I'm never the one to say, "leave a ton of reviews, or I'll withhold the next chapter, wahaha!" but now I'd really appreciate that, see my words above about the lack of motivation. Some interaction would just, you know, speed me up a bit, I suppose. **

**Meh, I feel **_**extremely awkward**_** at the moment, please forgive me xD**

**- *hiding from dissatisfied readers* Captain**


	4. Chapter 4

**Thank you for your support, I see it does the trick of getting me to work pretty well xD See, I even update a day earlier than I thought I would be able to (hint? maybe. In fact, yes, please do keep reviewing, it's really motivating 8D)**

**Now, like I've promised, let's see what's going on with Steve and Clint.**

* * *

Steve wipes his forehead with the back of his palm. The heat is really distracting and irritating. The man exhales slowly and enters the next room. He's been wandering around his floor for the past two hours, checking for anything weird. So far, he has noticed nothing that could give him a hint of what was designed for him by the evil guy.

The soldier is desperate to know how the others fare, and it is killing him not to be able to come for help, if need be. Not like he could help, anyway, and this outright frustrates the man. He is the _Captain_, and it's not a mere nickname; he desires to be able to protect those he holds dear. The man lets out a little suffering moan as he thinks about his helplessness once again.

Cap shuffles from one room to another, gripping his shield and holding a gun in his right hand (that's a bonus of being a superhero and living at superhero residence: always supplied with weapons). He'd prefer not substituting his weapon of choice with a mere gun, but it's not like he would be comfortable throwing the shield around the place. Would be much more destructive.

Steve rounds a corner and stops at the doorstep, peeking into yet another living-room. There's a big sofa in the centre of it, facing a huge screen hanging on the wall. In front of the sofa there is a low glass table, and Steve blinks in surprise as he notices a bowl of popcorn standing there.

"I don't remember leaving popcorn in here," the man muses aloud, stepping into the room. This is so unlike him, leaving food where it shouldn't be left. _Or maybe..?_

Maybe he indeed did leave it here yesterday. _Oh yeah,_ now Steve remembers: he was going to watch that _'Love Is Colder Than Death'_ by Rainer Werner Fassbinder, 1969. This makes sense now, and the man exhales is relief.

Still kind of weird, though, for Steve never thought himself to be capable of forgetting such things as a bowl of popcorn and intention to watch a movie.

'Must be the heat. Oh well, everything happens for the first time someday,' the man reassures himself as he walks up to the bowl and stuffs a handful into his mouth and hums in appreciation. With cheese, exactly his favorite kind. Steve can't help but wonder yet again, how he managed to forget about such tasty thing.

But living-room is still not the right place for popcorn when you are not inclined to watch anything in the next several days (Steve _genuinely hopes_ they _will be over with it in_ _several days_), so the man picks up the bowl after sliding his gun back in its cover attached to his waistband and turns to leave, but something catches his attention. Alarmed, he crouches down, inspecting the glass surface of the table, and his breathing stops as he notices imprints of tiny paws glaring in early afternoon sunlight. The man furrows his eyebrows as his eyes widen at the sight.

He doesn't know much about imprints, but_ those_ definitely look like they belong to some small animal. A rat, a mouse, a hamster. _And Steve doesn't remember having a hamster_. Of course, he didn't remember he wanted to watch the movie the day before, but _having an animal_ is _definitely_ something you aren't inclined to forget about.

The man fumbles with the gun's case, torn between hunting down the animal and running to a bathroom to retch. Self-preservation instinct kicks in a fraction earlier than the hunter's, and Steve takes off to the nearest bathroom.

-o- -o- -o-

Barton greatly dislikes the fact that the communication is no longer available, but it's not like he can't survive on his own, _thank you,_ so he doesn't worry about it too much. However, the best way Clint chooses to describe the situation is a _huge clusterfuck of epic weirdness_. His whole body tries to enter an endless cycle of stress, but he denies the action. What he totally does not need now is running around and pounding his head against walls, trying to come to a conclusion on _what the heck is going on_. They are fucked, and it's better for him to accept this fact (however hard it might be) and make his mind stay clear, thinking not of the _reasons_, but of the _outcomes_ instead.

_In fact_, he can even postpone thinking of the outcomes, for now there is a much more urgent thing demanding attention.

Clint suppresses a shudder of disgust as he nears the rat's corpse. It's been several hours since he shot the animal, and it is obvious now that the thing is not going _to jump up and launch itself _at him, but it's still loathsome.

And it's not like Clint doesn't like rats, he just… _Okay, _he doesn't like rats. And so what? Many people don't like the little fucks, but at least they don't have to deal with their crooked corpses. So there's _nothing fucking wrong_ with him. That stuff damn carries his infection. And it's damn huge. The man even put on a mask after the encounter.

The archer wrinkles his nose and goes off to pick a dustpan and a mop from a storeroom not far away. There is no goddamn way he is going to touch _that_ with bare hands. Even if the rat was damn sterile and boiled, he still wouldn't. Thinking of boiled rats makes him sick.

The look of disgust is clear even half-hidden by the mask as Clint sweeps the nasty thing and shakes it off from the dustpan into several thick plastic bags put into each other matryoshka-style (prepared them beforehand, of course). He ties the outer bag, wraps it in several layers of film before placing the bundle in a box and stuffing it in one of the fridges in the kitchen. That particular fridge was empty, anyway.

The man closes the fridge's door and finally exhales. He feels unclean now. _Definitely in need of a shower._

So said so done, and twenty minutes later Clint emerges from the bathroom with a towel secured tightly around his waist. The ninth floor is one of the common floors, so there is a number of guest rooms, and Clint feels fine about occupying one of them for now. The man nears a huge mirror in the sleeping-room and ruffles his wet hair, smiling appreciatively at his state of cleanness. "Much better now," he mutters and pauses to examine a small sore on his right shoulder. The man turns his back to the mirror and cranes his neck to get a better view. He winces at the sight of a nasty pimple and goes back to the bathroom to get rid of it.

Clint pinches the thing and lets out a tiny moan of displeasure as he smears a drop of pus between his fingers before turning on the water and washing it off, cleaning the sore with a paper towel. It's weird, he thought he had passed the stage of teenage acne since he was, well, a _teenager_. Whatever.

The man moves back to the sleeping-room and fishes a random loose tank top and trousers out of the wardrobe after putting _his own_ boxers back on. The trousers are bigger than he would like, so Clint searches for a belt as well.

It's early evening already, and the man feels a tug of hunger stir inside. Alright, time for a snack. Barton wanders off to the larder, humming a tune softly. He returns a couple of minutes later with a pack of potato chips and a can of soda, bouncing down on the bed and flicking the TV screen on. _"…And I'm not myself ever since, and gulls keep crying in the sky,"_ the man continues humming, switching the channels until he finds some 24-hour news network and settles on it contently.

* * *

**What, the fourth chapter is over, and still no one is dying? How weird. Gotta fix that soon, I guess.**

**The song Clint hums is the same I used as an epigraph to "That hAwkward moment", because a) it's about a falcon, partly, b) it just suits Clint so right, imo, and c) it's one of my favorite songs **_**ever**_**. In fact, check it out yourselves. It's a Russian song, though, but the music and the voice are outright awesome even if you don't get the lyrics.**

**Here's the link: (remove the spaaaaces) youtu. be/L_7xWUez8kY**

**On second thought, I have an English translation for the song, so if you wish, I can send it out, just PM me or something.**

**Oh, and just for the record, I don't dislike rats. I'm actually quite fond of them.**

**- Captain**


	5. Chapter 5

_**AN:**_** Whoa, this time it was the least amount of response I received **_**ever**_**. Kind of surprised 8D Anyway, a huge **_**thank you**_** to all who stays with me through the story! You guys rock. I have something in gratitude for you, see the AN below the chapter.**

* * *

_Where earth flows into sky_

_Where sky flows down to earth_

_I lay, becoming earth_

_Eyes turning towards sky_

-o- -o- -o-

Tony tosses away yet another file and groans in frustration.

When he realized the bird must have carried his infection, the first action he took was running out of the lab, _totally not_ flailing his arms around. The man ran into his kitchen and slammed the door shut, sliding down it and placing arms on knees, resting his forehead upon them.

At first, he was keen on not returning to the lab _no_ _matter what_, but then he thought over the whole situation _like a __**grown-up **__he is_ and realized that if the bird was indeed the carrier, he was certainly infected now (the damn canary _pooped_ on him, _for god's sake_), so there was no real point in leaving possibly the most important place in the Tower. Because who else would have more information about biological hazards than Bruce Banner?

Still somewhat reluctantly, Tony returned to the lab and started off with one of the numerous bookcases filled with endless amount of documents on various illnesses.

…Several hours later, in the middle of the night, he is still sitting with his back against one of the bookcases, and accurate piles of files on his left slowly grow smaller while one messy pile on his right grows bigger. Tony yawns and closes another file, tossing it on top of the heap. He takes the next file and rubs his forehead, thinking over the process.

He still has no symptoms, so he just searches for any mentions of house birds as carriers.

"Nope, that bird doesn't look like a duck," the man mutters and throws the file labeled 'Salmonellosis' to his right without looking on the pile.

The canary chirps, and Tony lifts his head, looking at it questioningly. The bird seems to be distressed for some reason. Tony thinks over it for several seconds, then snaps his fingers, gets up and leaves to the kitchen, returning soon with a bowl of cereal in his hands, placing it on a table near the bird.

"Happy now, little bastard?"

The canary chirps in gratitude. Tony sighs.

-o- -o- -o-

Steve closes the book he's currently reading and sighs. It's late at night already, and he still can't find any sleep.

The man moved to the fourth floor when he cleaned himself after the unhappy meeting with the toilet, for he didn't wish to stay on the same floor with the animal, regardless of whether it already managed to transfer the infection or not. At least, now it can't get to Steve, because JARVIS literally has all chinks and cracks securely blocked, and Steve paid extra attention to close all doors on his way. So yeah, no rabid hamsters here.

But it still does nothing to help him to sleep. Steve sighs again, looking at the cover of the book he is holding. It's _'The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious' _by Jung, and the man was genuinely hoping it will bore him to death and make him fall asleep when he found the book. He guessed only half-right: it indeed seems boring to him, as he knows next to nothing about psychology, but the much-needed sleep still eludes him. Must be the stress.

Steve is still worried about the others, and _now _he is also somewhat nervous about his own well-being, too.

The soldier has already checked the floor for anything strange, but it seems normal to him. Just a regular common floor of the Tower, nothing special; so he finally settled down in one of the guest rooms.

"'_Just as in Christianity the vow of wordly poverty turned the mind away from the riches of this earth, so spiritual poverty seeks to renounce…_' Okay, I give up, psychology is not my cup of tea, have to admit that," with these words Steve sets the book aside and lies down, staring at the ceiling.

Half an hour passes and Steve feels thirst. Finally, at least it's something for him to do instead of just lying in a stuffy room and thinking of microbes, so he gets up and moves to the kitchen (again, he has spent some time inspecting the floor, so he has no trouble finding anything he needs now).

The man picks a glass from a cupboard and fills it with water. It feels good against his dry throat as he gulps the water down, though there is a strange aftertaste lingering in his mouth. Steve tries not to think of it as he rinses the glass and goes back to the room.

He stumbles as he enters it, and has to hold onto the door knob as he regains the balance. Something feels wrong, and he realizes he has a fever after falling down on the bed. Whether it developed from stress or the infection, he cannot tell. "Just what I needed," he mutters and groans. 'Maybe it will go away in the morning, though. 's better to go to sleep, at last,' he muses and lies in the darkness for some time before finally dozing off.

-o- -o- -o-

Bruce is having a difficult night. He awoke with a temperature a while ago, and his brain is currently trying to do a diagnosis, but it's not easy for him to stay coherent. He cannot make himself get up and take a thermometer _or do anything else, really_, but his guess is that the fever is somewhere near 39.

Which is bad.

"What do we have…" he moans, hoping that giving voice to his thoughts might help him not lose remnants of coherence.

"Temperature. Nausea," he speaks with effort, trying to lift an arm. Fail there. "Weakness in limbs," he adds. Three symptoms already.

And they still make no sense.

Okay, maybe he still can do the diagnosis, by excluding most unreasonable variants.

"Tularemia," the doctor pauses. "No buboes," he confirms, finally managing to lift an arm and probe skin of his neck and armpits. "No pain in legs and back. No… no euphoria," irony is evident. "No face edema." He pauses again. "This is not tularemia."

'_What's next…'_

"Encephalitis… _Japanese_ encephalitis. Fever. Weakness. Sleepiness. Diplopia?" Bruce tries to focus, but it's _kind of uneasy_ in the darkness. "Okay, maybe no diplopia. Still can be encephalitis." Banner groans; that is going to get nasty in this case.

"Then… Anthrax. No carbuncles… No bloody phlegm. So it's neither… pulmonary nor… cutaneous. And it can't be gastrointestinal. So no anthrax."

"Now… Filariasis…" the doctor is ready to make a list of its symptoms when another one shows itself.

A slight tingling feeling on his skin.

"Malaria, then." The man tiredly says.

-o- -o- -o-

Clint awakens at night, clearly disturbed by something. He rolls over in his bed and turns the TV off. _'…However, the bomb was defused before any harm could be caused, as reported by Lieutenant Joseph Makowski of Nationa-_' the TV manages to say before it goes black, drowning the room in unlight. 'Happy for Makowski,' Barton thinks absent-mindedly. Before S.H.I.E.L.D., he has been to several war fields and defused quite a number of bombs himself, so the remark is genuine, in fact.

Clint fumbles in the darkness and winces at the bright light as he finally manages to turn on the lamp on the nightstand. The man sits up and rubs his eyes and forehead, realizing he has a fever. 'Shit,' he thinks and flexes his neck to get rid of the stiff feeling, which has in fact awoken him at first hand. An unusual pull makes the archer place a hand over his neck, probing his skin. It feels quite warm, too, but the wrong thing is that it feels warm _even compared_ to his overall body temperature.

The man gets off the bed, swaying slightly, and carefully walks up to the same mirror he used the previous day. The lamplight would be barely enough for a normal man to see, but Clint's keen eyes cannot be compared to average people's. Barton squints them, gazing at his neck, but what he sees makes them widen in shock.

There are two bulges of flesh on both sides of his neck, and big oval spots above the bulges gleam an angry red color. The man doesn't know much about illnesses, but he has enough common knowledge to recognize this particular one.

Plague.

* * *

…**Okay, I'm evil. *sigh***

**Now to the references:**

**(Steve) Personally, I'm not into psychology as well, but surprisingly I found the 'Archetypes' quite amusing! Jung is a cool dude, seriously.**

**(Clint) Due to the fandom rule (smth along the lines of 'characters from different universes played by the same actor are one character'), I referred to Renner's role in 'Hurt Locker' (an awesome movie, guys, seriously. Go watch it)**

**And now the little thing I promised above. Remember me saying I had an image of Tony and the canary stuck in my head? There, I drew it xD I dunno, maybe you guys would like it, and it will count for my act of gratitude 8) If no, then, well, sorry to disappoint you 8(**

**The link (remove the spaces, as usually): img194 .imageshack. us/img194 /7229/grossc. jpg  
**

**Stay tuned.**

**- Cpt**


	6. Chapter 6

_**AN:**_** I'm so sorry, it took me so long to revise this chapter and finally get it posted! You know, the 'real life' stuff, ugh.**

**I want to warn you this chapter focuses solely on Tony. I was intending to go with all four, but Iron Ass simply **_**demanded**_** more screen time, and, honestly, I had not the heart to refuse (just for the record: TS is indeed one of my fav characters, but is_ not_ the most favorite). But hey, what if I promise next chapter will have all of them? **

* * *

_A knight has come to our place from afar_

_From the land where the sun slumbers_

_From the land of tall forests_

_A knight of green eyes and silver cloak_

-o- -o- -o-

Tony groans in familiar frustration as he tosses a file labeled 'Onchocerciasis' to a side. He raises a hand to rub his aching temple, considering the past few hours. It's late in the morning now, he must have fallen asleep at some point during the night. _Awesome, Bruce, you definitely should think about publishing an anti-insomnia book of some sort. 'Brucey's Boring Book'. With all those articles and researches of yours… The disorder will be left defenseless. _A rather lame attempt on humor makes Tony introduce his other hand to his face as the man continues thinking.

_-flashback-_

Something tells him to wake up. The feeling is uncomfortable and he tries to get away from it, but that just doesn't seem to work. He opens his eyes and still sees nothing. A wave of panic starts rising inside – _have I gone blind?_ – but then he realizes it's just pitch dark in the laboratory.

"JARVIS, mind giving some light?" he says in a raspy voice; his throat is so dry. The AI complies, and he stands up cautiously, leaning on one of the empty bookcases for support. 'What did Bruce say about the kit… Ah, yeah,' his brain processes, and he lets go of the bookcase and heads to the eastern corner.

It's really difficult not to trip over the heaps of _useless, damn it,_ files on his way to the table, but he manages and squats down in front of it, reaching under the table with his hand. He sways forward and has to support himself with his other hand, grasping the table's edge. He fumbles blindly with the locks that hold the box in place, but they don't seem to be giving in any time soon.

'Damn,' he swears and contemplates ducking under the table and opening the locks when he can actually_ see_ them, but he is not entirely sure he will manage to get up after that. So he continues fumbling with one hand, swaying and shivering every now and then. Looks like he's still going only due to his infinite stubbornness of _epic_ proportions. The locks are easy, damn it, it's not like they are made to hold onto the kit _for dear life_ and not let the sick man use it, so _why the fuck_? 'Oh _please_,' he does _not _whine, when the locks suddenly let go and the kit falls flat on the floor.

He just stares at it and breaths for several long seconds, his head throbbing mercilessly and making the picture blur.

He pulls the heavy box from under the table and opens it, noticing a thermometer and stuffing it into his mouth immediately before lifting the kit slowly while forcing himself up. The surroundings sway like they _shouldn't be, in fact,_ and he waits until they become steadier before turning around carefully and walking back to his place near the bookcases. On his way, he thinks that _maybe a bed would do,_ but he still hasn't defined the disease, so no bed for the tired man for now.

He navigates slowly among the piles when a coughing fit hits him, making him double in pain, but he remembers to hold the kit securely and not let it drop on the floor; he doubts he would manage to lift it once again. The cough is so painful it brings tears to his eyes, but he blinks them away and finally regains his composure, reaching the bookcases, sliding down on the floor and placing the box to his right.

He leans back against the bookcase and closes his eyes. He is so tired and sleepy, and head is plain killing him, and his legs are throbbing _– why?_ – and one of the shelves is digging _impolitely_ in the back of his head, and come on, _seriously,_ what else will go wrong?

The thermometer beeps_ excruciatingly,_ making his head explode in pain, and he spits out the offensive thing, catching it with one hand and gazing at the numbers. 39,7 C. He silently wonders how he managed the feat of standing up and getting the kit with such temperature.

"Remind me to tell Thor I'm a demigod, too," he mumbles to JARVIS and puts the thermometer down, glancing in the box. "Now what have we here…" he says as he picks up a vial randomly. The pills click against each other quietly.

He squints to make the hazy vision a bit, well, _less hazy_. 'Paracetamol, codeine… what the doctor ordered. Finally some luck,' he muses as he opens the vial and lets a pill drop on his opened palm. He pauses for a moment, contemplating if he should try to get up again and get some water to swallow that. 'Real men don't need water,' he cuts after a while and dry-swallows the pill. He sits there motionlessly, waiting for the meds to start doing their job, and doesn't notice as he falls asleep.

_-end of flashback-_

Tony looks at the files and feels nauseated at the sight. He's already sick of looking through them, vainly trying to identify the illness. 'No, I mean, it's good Bruce has such a huge library, but _damn_ why does it have to be so huge,' the man muses silently.

His head throbs, but he is reluctant about taking more pills. He's already taken one when he awoke, and overdosing might mess with his head's state of clearness, and that's _not_ something he is eager to mess with, not now. A violent coughing fit hits him and holds for seven damn seconds of ridiculous _'see if the fit is strong enough to make you cough your lungs out' _experiment before finally letting go of the exhausted man. He leans back against the bookcase, regaining his breath before continuing on the devil's _ungrateful_ work.

Tony picks up a file without even looking at the label and flips it open, staring at it while not actually reading, he's just so tired. Suddenly, some word catches his attention and the man snaps back into reality, furrowing his eyebrows as he tries to concentrate.

A minute later, he closes the file with a victorious snap.

"_Psittacosis!"_ he exclaims. "It's goddamn _parrot disease_!"

He can't help but laugh a little, even if it makes his headache gnaw at his cranium even more persistently. Another coughing fit cuts the laughing pretty soon though, leaving the man with a faint hint of blood in his mouth. 'Yeah, yeah, doesn't really look like the _fourth or fifth day_ they promise here,' he muses tiredly before opening the file again to read about the cure. Weakness starts creeping over him again, and the man has to make an effort to keep the file in place, grasping it firmly with both hands.

'Doxycycline. Pills or intravenous. Gah, hope Banner has that,' Tony looks around and spots three huge refrigerators in one of the lab's corners. He remembers the other man keeps medicaments in them, so why not try to look for doxycycline?

"One does not simply walk across the room," the man groans as he gets up slowly and makes his way towards the first fridge. He feels like he will faint every fucking moment, and he simply falls down on his knees when he reaches his destination.

Tony opens the fridge with an effort and his mind goes blank at the sight.

There are numerous large plastic containers in the fridge, labeled from A to H, two containers in a row, and yes, they do seem to contain meds – Tony pulls out one of them to find it filled with vials, ampoules and god-knows-what else.

But. The container labeled D is in the second row.

"Ffffffuck!" Tony swears and winces bitterly. He almost whines as he looks at the thing that possibly contains his cure _and is damn out of reach_.

Stark breaths in and out several times, preparing himself and forcing the weakness away, then grasps the fridge door with one hand and the H container with the other and gets up painfully slowly, pausing every now and then to avoid keeling over.

One long minute later he is finally standing, and the man pulls the container sharply. He loses the fragile balance and tumbles back with the container in his hands, hitting the floor and coughing from the impact.

Tony winces and rolls over to his stomach, placing the container in front of him and raising his chin to look over the high edge.

"Ugh. Dexamethasone, dicycloverine, dextrometh… dextr… _Alright,_ screw this shit," Tony growls. "Now where is that damn doxycycline?" the man squints his eyes, throwing glances around the container, and finally spots a small bag with white powder in it. Tony shifts his weight to his left elbow and fishes the bag out of the container with his right, rolling over and away from it, ending up on his back and holding the bag up to his eyes.

"The main question is," he says aloud. "How am I supposed to use it?"

"_May I help you, sir?"_ JARVIS inquires.

"Uh," Tony sputters. "Please, don't tell me you know how to prepare this stuff."

"_Such information is not located in my database,"_ the AI agrees. _"However, A-3 might be helpful."_

Tony starts at the screeching and beeping noise of a waking machine to his left. A robot on tracks approaches him, and the man recognizes it: he himself has persuaded Banner the doc could use an assistant several months ago, and it was easy to build one extra robot for Bruce. The machine stops a few feet away from the man, seemingly waiting for his command.

"Wait. Waitwaitwaitwait. _JARVIS_," Tony drops.

"_Sir?"_

"You mean, this robot, A-3, Bruce really uses it as his assistant?"

"_Yes, sir."_

"Aaand he keeps all the data in it?"

"_So I would say."_

"Ah," Tony thinks over the information and suddenly bursts out laughing, curling up on his side. Laughing is painful, but he can't stop.

"You mean… you mean…" he manages. The AI waits politely. "You mean I could simply _ask_ A-3 instead of going through the library _and_ nearly killing myself while trying to get the kit and that goddamn doxyxycline?"

"_Correct, sir."_

"JARVIS, you… you are an ass," Tony uncurls back and gazes at the ceiling. "Remind me to make you less assy and more helpful when I'm done."

"_Of course, sir."_

"Also, remind me to erase those sarcastic notes of yours."

"_Anytime, sir."_

"Alright. Now," Tony turns his head to the robot and offers the bag to it. "I don't know a shit about that _bird thing_ I have, but I feel my fever is getting worse again, so would you mind doing whatever needs to be done with this meds while I'm rebuilding myself from this _sloppy mess of goo_ I currently resemble, _thank you_?"

The robot listens to his tirade patiently and takes the bag with a mechanic hand, quickly turning around and wandering away to Bruce's numerous tables and cabinets. Tony is curious to watch, but he can't see anything from this point of view, and doesn't really have strength to change his position.

Or maybe he has? The man tries to sit up, but another coughing fit hits him midway, and he falls back heavily. 'Okay, no getting up then. Hope the robot won't poison me or something.'

* * *

**That's it for now, hope you didn't get bored!**

**- Captain**


	7. Chapter 7

_**AN:**_** Oh. Oh. **_**OHHH.**_** Really, now. Guys, I'm so sorry this took so long! Real life being real life and me having gotten a job aren't really helpful with writing, so, yeah.**

**Again, I'm really sorry, and really grateful to those who still stay with me during this thing, you are awesome, thank you!**

* * *

_It's true one can't take these walls by wrath_

_But forgive me, my Queen, I still go on._

-o- -o- -o-

It's late in the morning, and Steve feels sick. He would blame it on the weather, but no, it's not weather, not _just_ weather. He wakes up at this feeling of headache and sickness, and barely has time to scoot over to the bed's edge before he vomits violently on the floor. He's not particularly willing to look at the mess, but yes, he notices blood there, not much, but it makes him even sicker nonetheless.

He rolls on his back and fumbles to sit up, propping himself against the headboard and breathing deeply, trying to calm his stomach. Not really working.

The fever is still as bad as the night before, maybe even worse, Steve doesn't really know, and doesn't really want to know. His vision is hazy, and his mind feels like enwrapped in a thick hot foggy layer of illness, and it would drive him crazy if he had any strength to spend it on having emotions.

But he somehow manages to remember there is a kit here somewhere. Steve leans forward, folding his legs beneath him and putting hands on the edge of the mattress to support himself, eyes darting around the room.

He notices the kit and makes a movement in its direction, but his hands slip suddenly, and he hits the floor with them, chest colliding with the mattress. The impact sends his spinning head downward on inertia, and he sputters and spits when something fills his nose and mouth.

Steve squeezes his eyes shut and curls up on his side, head still dangling over the edge of bed. The man coughs and shakes violently as blood – yes, it's blood – paints yellowish carpet a disturbing dark red. There's not much blood, but it's enough for Steve to feel like he is suffocating.

The fit is finally over, and he cranes his neck to rest his head on the bed, still coughing a little and shaking. The attack was so sudden it left the man completely devastated.

His head feels worse now, and his entire body aches like he's been training for the past 72 hours non-stop. Steve moans and stretches out his legs, lying on his side, to lessen to tightness in his stomach.

He doesn't know what the disease that hit him is called, and he can't make himself care. No use in a name when he can't do anything to make things better. All he wants now is the pain to go away. His heart skips a beat at the thought that the others might be suffering just as much, maybe even worse, maybe even… He doesn't have enough willpower to end that sentence.

He doesn't have willpower for anything, now. 'Hope the others will manage,' is Steve's last thought before his mind shuts down tiredly.

-o- -o- -o-

Clint moans and moves his limbs, vainly trying to lessen the pain. The buboes on his neck have grown even bigger over the night, and four more appeared symmetrically – two on the inner sides of his thighs and two on his sides right under the armpits.

And they hurt like _fuckers_.

Clint is lying on the floor – has fallen from the bed sometime during the night – and the heat covers his entire body with a sheen of sweat. He thanks the cosmic powers for having put on a tank top instead of a T-shirt back then. And for wearing loose buckled trousers: he had only some trouble unbuckling and wiggling out of them, staying in his boxers only. The pain in his thighs lessened considerably at that point, but it still was too much. He even thought of taking off his underwear, but duh, real men don't go out naked (Clint cringed at that point; the thought sounded suspiciously like something Tony Stark would say. Blame the damn genius and his influence on people).

Clint lets out another moan and cranes his neck back to lessen the tightness in his neck. The man is thirsty, but there's no way he will get up to have some water. Every movement, scratch that, every _hint_ of a movement, every _thought of making_ a movement sends waves of pain through his frame. Clint feels _crucified,_ his head screams in pain and his eyeballs ache like they are eager to leave their respective residences and roll away from the ill-starred man.

Clint would not blame them for that, honestly. He would roll away from himself, too, if he had the chance.

All he feels is pain. Flares, flames, needles of pain. And his mouth and throat seem to have transformed into pure emery paper, Clint is almost sure he will scratch his tongue if he runs it over the palate.

Plague. _Really._ Medieval disease for one who uses medieval weapon, huh. Barton would have chuckled at the thought if he could.

He doesn't even know if they can cure plague now. Somehow it slipped past the man; it's not like he was ever curious about diseases. And even if it is curable now, Clint highly doubts the kit has something to aid him.

There's no honour in dying like that. If anything, Clint would prefer to die of something along the lines of 'ever after', but if he was given a choice, he would _definitely _choose dying in a battle over _this_. In fact, he would choose _anything_ over dying here like a dog, sprawled across the floor like a helpless crippled animal, waiting to be shot by its merciful master or claimed by the uncompromising disease.

"I give up. Someone, shoot me," Clint whispers before darkness engulfs him.

-o- -o- -o-

Tony is dozing off. It becomes hotter and hotter as the day progresses. He has rolled away from direct sunrays a couple of hours ago, but there's almost no air to breathe whatsoever.

A-3 made an infusion for the man, dissolving the doxycycline powder in salty water and wrapping the injection bag in a piece of dark clothing to spare it light.

Tony gazes up at the dark bag. It sways slightly on its tripod, with the medicine dropping down a tube connected to the crook of the man's left elbow via a catheter. A-3 has analyzed Tony's state and informed him through JARVIS that he would need at least one more injection at night before he could pass on to pills. Tony could only shrug to that.

Of course, there is always risk he will catch the offending thing again, but the canary has vanished somewhere during the night, and Tony had A-3 clean out the lab and the kitchen, so that territory is safe now, or so he genuinely hopes.

There's stinging pain in the man's chest, and he keeps coughing up blood. Other than that (and fever and weakness, of course) he's just fine… Scratch that. It's hard for the stubborn man to admit, but he feels _awful_. The only thing he wants right now is to curl up and enter blissful coma, but curling up might even increase his body temperature (if that is logically possible), so he throws the thought away.

He hops on the train of thought that leads him to telling the robot to bring him water, and that's when his dozing is interrupted by JARVIS.

"_May I have your attention, sir?"_

"Bring it on," he mutters tiredly.

"_The communication has been restored."_

Tony shoots his eyes open.

-o- -o- -o-

Bruce keeps drifting in an out of consciousness, never fully awake of fully asleep. He has already injected antipyretic and analgesic agents a while (an hour? hours?) ago, but it barely helps him with enormous amounts of aches in his head and joints. Because, well, it's _malaria_.

Obviously, the first-aid kit doesn't have anything for malaria. The doctor makes a mental note to upgrade the useless kits, when they come out of this alive. If they manage.

Bruce rolls over on his bed and groans. His thoughts drift to the others lazily, but the man can't even make himself worry about the rest of the victims (not victims. _team_, he corrects himself) anymore, let alone the doctor.

He just wants to sleep. To let his mind drown in dreams, to let them take him away from pain and heat. That would be _sooo_ nice. Maybe he would fall asleep now and have a sweet dream about a cool forest in the evening, full of green leaves and berries and mosquitoes…

_Stop. No damn mosquitoes in my dreams. I want a mosquito-free forest._

"_Yo, asses! Anybody home?"_ a voice enters his head, making him cringe in pain.

_And no Iron Men, they are no better than mosquitoes! __**Wait…**_

"Tony?" he whispers, then, with more effort and vocalizing, "Stark?"

"_And whom would you expect, green bro?" _the man doesn't sound like he is dying, and Bruce sighs in relief. _"How do you feel? Anyone else? Don't be shy, boys,"_ anxiety is obvious behind his seemingly cocky tone of voice.

Bruce waits, but no one joins their conversation. He clears his throat.

"I have malaria, Tony. It's not really nice, but could be way worse. What about you?"

"_I have parrot disease!"_ _was that __**pride**__?_ The scientist cannot make himself feel surprised about the fact that the chatterbox has a chatterbox illness. _"Your robot helped me, though, so now I'm just lying around with a dropper. Banner, it's not contagious. If you tell me what you need, I can bring it down to you."_

Bruce considers his words. It can still be dangerous to move around the Tower. On second thought, there are hardly any more mosquitoes with malaria flying around, since the goal of infecting him has been reached. He sighs.

"This is dangerous," he says anyway. "You cannot take the risk."

"_Oh __**yes I can**__,"_ if the man can still be so stubborn, his life is definitely out of danger. This is good. But there is still a nagging feeling at the back of Bruce's mind about the other two's silence. They have to find out what is wrong.

Therefore, he needs Tony to help him first.

"Alright," he finally says. "But you should wear a mask when you come down here.

"_But mo-om!"_

"I insist, Tony."

"_Party pooper."_

"There's no party, I'm afraid to disappoint you."

"_Still."_

"Thank you."

"_Jerk. So what do you need?"_

Bruce stops to think before answering.

"Quinine. The illness is not acute in my case, so the pills will be enough. Take them in the… No, better ask A-3, he'll give you a pack."

"_You wound me deeply by doubting my skills of standing, walking and searching for meds."_

"You'll have a chance to prove you are capable of the first two on your way down. Plus stairs taming."

"_I'll take the elevator, thank you."_

-o- -o- -o-

Tony lies impatiently for the last several minutes until his dropping bag is empty and disconnects the tube from the catheter.

_Inhale, exhale._

_Get up._

He sits up slowly and coughs, wiping bloody saliva from his lips with a thumb. His head spins, but he has a mission to accomplish, so screw that.

"A-3, you heard the boss? Find a pack of quinine for the doc, and prepare another bag of doxycycline for me," the robot beeps and starts doing as been told.

A few minutes later Tony gets up and leans back against a wall, trying to come to terms with his spinning head. 'Come on, stop that, ain't funny anymore. Seriously now' He accepts the package from A-3 and opens the door of the lab, heading out to the elevator. He doesn't really think he is ready to tame some stairs just yet.


	8. Note

**Note!:** Hello, it's Katie here, I'm Jay's elder sister, and Jay (aka Captain Narcolepsy, as you might have guessed by the moment) granted me access to his account to post this.

My brother was hit by a car on July tenth, and he was in hospital until two days ago. They fixed him pretty well, so his life is not in danger, but both of his wrists were severely damaged, so I'm afraid Jay will not be typing any time soon to avoid straining them (and, sadly, his casts wouldn't let him type or write, anyway) (and yes, he is sitting here right now and dictates to me as I type).

He asks forgiveness and says he feels really guilty that he might not be able to continue and might have to drop the fic, "Sorry to disappoint you guys. I really feel bad about that."

He also adds that you might be dissatisfied with the fact that the chapter update appeared to be a Note only, but we talked about that and decided that it'd be better that you know what the problem is, and don't have to waste your time on waiting for updates.

Finally, Jay says thank you to his readers, apologizes once again, and wishes you good luck.

Using the right temporarily granted to me by the author, I suspend this piece of fanfiction particularly and the whole account in general for unknown period. Thank you for your attention.


End file.
